The moon did not love her. Lyra Ashbourne had known this truth since she was six years old, standing in the silver-dusted clearing of the Moon Temple while her peers shivered and stretched and became wolves. She had watched their bones reshape. Watched fur sprout from skin. Watched eyes turn gold and amber and silver. She had waited for her own transformation, certain it would come. It never did. Now she was twenty years old. The coming-of-age ceremonies had passed her by seventeen times. Seventeen times she had stood at the edge of the crowd, wrapped in the grey cloak of the unworthy, and watched others receive what the Goddess had denied her. The Moon Goddess did not love her. The Silverfang Pack made certain she never forgot it. *** The Temple of Silverfang rose from the heart of the silver forest like a prayer given stone. Pillars of pale marble caught the moonlight and scattered it across the clearing, turning the night air to liquid pearl. Ancient runes spiraled up the columns-blessings, warnings, histories carved by priests long dead. At the center of the temple grounds, a circular dais of white stone awaited the morning's ceremony. Lyra stood at the edge of the crowd, her grey wool cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. The fabric was coarse against her skin, a constant reminder of her station. The unshifted wore grey. The worthy wore silver. The distinction was clear, and the pack enforced it with the casual cruelty of those who had never known what it meant to be other. She had learned to make herself small. To keep her eyes down. To breathe quietly and take up as little space as possible. It was survival. The pack had no patience for a Moon-Cursed girl who drew attention to herself. The ceremony began with the rising of the full moon. High Priestess Mirabel ascended the dais, her white robes trailing behind her like a bridal train. She was ancient-older than anyone in Silverfang could remember-her face a map of wrinkles and her eyes the same silver-white as the temple itself. She raised her arms to the sky, and the crowd fell silent. "Children of the Moon," she intoned, her voice carrying across the clearing without effort. "Tonight, we welcome new wolves into our pack. Tonight, the Goddess bestows her blessing upon those who have proven worthy. Step forward, young ones. Let the moon see you." Three young wolves stepped onto the dais. Two boys, one girl. Lyra recognized them all. The eldest was Ronan, the pack's golden boy-broad-shouldered, arrogant, with a smile that made young wolves swoon and older wolves nod in approval. His father was Captain of the Guard. His mother was a priestess. Ronan had been groomed for greatness since birth. The other boy was younger, barely fifteen. Lyra didn't know his name. She didn't know the girl's either. They were strangers to her, as most of the pack was. She had learned long ago not to form attachments. Attachments meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant pain. The ceremony continued. Priestess Mirabel anointed each young wolf with oil blessed under the new moon. She spoke the ancient words-the invocation that called the wolf from its slumber. Lyra had heard the words so many times she could recite them in her sleep. "By the blood of the first wolf, by the breath of the Moon Goddess, awaken, child of the night. Awaken and be made whole." The first boy shifted first. His body contorted, bones cracking and reforming, fur sprouting from his skin in waves of dark brown. The crowd gasped in appreciation. A strong shift. A clean shift. The mark of a warrior. The girl followed. Her transformation was smoother, more elegant. Silver fur rippled across her form as she dropped to all fours, her new wolf's eyes gleaming with intelligence. The pack applauded. Another strong addition. Another future mother of warriors. Then it was Ronan's turn. He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. And when he opened them, they were burning gold. His shift was spectacular. His body exploded outward-not painfully, not awkwardly, but with the controlled violence of a predator born to hunt. His wolf was enormous, a beast of black and silver fur with eyes like molten metal. He threw his head back and howled, and the pack howled with him. The sound rose to the moon like a prayer answered. Priestess Mirabel smiled. "The Goddess has blessed us indeed." Lyra watched Ronan's wolf circle the dais, his tail high, his head held with pride. She watched the pack cheer for him, the future Alpha of Silverfang. She watched her own mother in the front row, clapping with tears in her eyes. Her mother never looked back at her. *** When the ceremony ended, the pack flooded forward to congratulate the newly shifted. Lyra slipped away from the crowd, heading for the edge of the clearing where the trees grew thick and the shadows offered refuge. She had done this every year. Slip away. Be forgotten. It was easier than enduring the pity or the ridicule. But this year, the ridicule found her anyway. "Still waiting for your wolf, Moon-Cursed?" She froze. The voice was familiar-cocky, condescending, dripping with amusement. She turned slowly. Ronan stood behind her, flanked by his two friends. He was back in human form now, his clothes perfectly arranged, his dark hair tousled in that careless way that made the young wolves sigh. His wolf was still present in his eyes-a flicker of gold that reminded her what she lacked. She said nothing. Silence was safer. Ronan stepped closer. He was taller than her, broader, and he used every inch of his advantage. The other wolves in the clearing were too far away to notice. Or perhaps they simply didn't care. A Moon-Cursed girl being bullied was not interesting enough to interrupt a celebration. "Maybe you should pray harder," Ronan continued, his smile sharp. "Or maybe you should pray to a different goddess. One who actually listens." His friends laughed. Lyra kept her eyes on the ground. She was trembling-she hated that she was trembling-but she couldn't stop it. Her hands shook at her sides. Her throat was too tight to speak. "I heard your father is looking for a way to get rid of you," Ronan said, and his voice was suddenly softer, more intimate. He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. "I could help him. Find you a husband in some distant pack. Somewhere you'd be out of sight, out of mind. Not that anyone would mind losing a Moon-Cursed, anyway." His hand touched her shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring. It felt like a brand. "Maybe your husband would finally give you a wolf," he murmured. "Or maybe he'd just use you until you broke, and then-" She didn't hear the rest. Something moved inside her chest. That caged thing. That buried presence she had tried so hard to ignore. It slammed against her ribs like a fist, and for one terrible second, the world went dark at the edges. Not the darkness of night. The darkness of hunger. She felt something surge through her veins-hot, molten, ancient. The pressure behind her ribs built and built until she thought she would shatter. And in that moment, she saw something in her mind's eye. A wolf. Black as shadow. Eyes of burning amber. It looked at her, and it knew her. "Let me out." The voice was not her own. It echoed inside her skull like thunder rolling across an empty sky. Lyra's blood went cold even as the heat in her chest burned hotter. She stumbled backward, away from Ronan, away from the voice, away from herself. She fell. The world snapped back into focus. She was on the ground, her palms scraped against the rough bark of a fallen branch. Ronan was staring down at her, his expression flickering from amusement to something else. Something that looked almost like fear. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. Lyra shook her head. "Nothing. I-I tripped. I'm sorry." She scrambled to her feet. Her legs were shaking. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. She didn't look at Ronan. She didn't look at anyone. She just ran. She ran until the temple was gone. Until the silver trees gave way to the darker woods that bordered Silverfang's territory. She ran until her lungs burned and her vision blurred and her legs gave out beneath her. Then she fell to her knees in the dirt and wept. *** She did not know how long she stayed there. The forest was silent around her. The moon was still full overhead, pouring silver light through the canopy of black pines. She was far from home now-far from the pack, far from the cruel words and colder silences. She should have been afraid. The forest was dangerous after dark. But she was too exhausted to feel anything but shame. You're pathetic, she told herself. You can't even shift. You can't even defend yourself. You let him talk to you like that, and you ran away like a child. She pressed her palms against her eyes and tried to breathe. The voice came again. "You are not pathetic." Lyra's head snapped up. She was alone. The forest was empty. But the voice had been so clear, so close. Not the whisper of wind through the trees. Not the creak of branches. A voice. A real voice. "Who's there?" she whispered. Silence. She waited. Her heart was hammering again. She scanned the shadows, searching for movement, for the gleam of eyes, for anything that might explain what was happening to her. Nothing. She told herself it was exhaustion. The stress of the ceremony. The humiliation at Ronan's hands. Her mind was playing tricks on her. But as she rose to her feet and made her way back toward the village, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. And somewhere deep in her chest, the caged thing stirred again. Soon, it whispered. Soon, little wolf.

The summons came at dawn. Lyra had barely slept. She had spent the night staring at the ceiling of her small chamber, listening to the sounds of the pack house settling around her. She had heard her mother's footsteps in the hallway, pausing briefly outside her door, then moving on. She had heard her sister Elara whispering to her dolls in the next room. She had heard nothing from her father. Lord Aldric Ashbourne had not spoken to her in three days. Not since the night she had begged him to let her stay home. Not since he had informed her that her fate was no longer her own. The summons came from him. A servant with a cold expression and a curt delivery. "Your father requires your presence in his study." Lyra nodded. She dressed in her finest gown-the pale grey silk that her mother had commissioned for the ceremony that never happened for her. It was the only dress she owned that wasn't the coarse wool of the Moon-Cursed. She wore it because she had nothing else to wear. She wore it because she wanted her father to see that she was trying. It did not matter. Lord Aldric did not look up from his desk when she entered. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with the sharp features of a born leader. He had once been a warrior of legendary skill. Now he was a lord with a dying kingdom and a daughter he saw as a liability. He poured himself a glass of wine. He did not offer her any. "Sit," he said. Lyra sat. She folded her hands in her lap. She kept her eyes down. She had learned the posture of compliance so thoroughly it had become second nature. "I have arranged a betrothal," Aldric said, still not looking at her. "The negotiations are complete. You will marry in two weeks." Lyra's stomach dropped. "Father, I-" "You will not interrupt me." She fell silent. He finally looked up, and his eyes were cold. Not cruel-she might have preferred cruelty. Cold indifference was worse. It said she was not worth the energy of hatred. "Silverfang is dying," he said flatly. "Our mines are depleted. Our warriors are too few. The surrounding packs smell weakness, and they will strike when the opportunity presents itself. Your mother's family has offered no assistance. Your brother is too young to lead. I have done everything I can to preserve this kingdom, but I cannot do it alone." Lyra's throat tightened. "What does that have to do with-" "Everything." He set down his glass and leaned forward. "I have secured an alliance. The strongest alliance we could hope for. The Alpha of Black Hollow has agreed to take you as his wife in exchange for military protection." The name hit Lyra like a physical blow. Black Hollow. Home of the Shadow Wolves. Home of the Devil Alpha himself. Kael Draven. Lyra's breath caught. She had heard the stories. Everyone had. The King of Black Hollow was a monster in human skin. He had conquered three kingdoms before he turned twenty-five. He was called the Devil because he had no mercy, no conscience, no soul. He had killed his own father to take the throne. He had killed his enemies with such brutality that his victims' own packs refused to claim their bodies. "You're giving me to him," Lyra whispered. "To Kael Draven." Aldric did not flinch. "I am saving this kingdom." "I am your daughter." "I am a king." His voice was hard. "And you have given this kingdom nothing. No wolf. No honor. No future. You cannot shift. You cannot fight. You cannot even defend yourself against a bully's words. If you were anyone else, you would have been cast out years ago." Lyra felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked them back furiously. She would not cry in front of him. She would not give him that satisfaction. "This is the one thing you can do," Aldric continued. "You will go to Black Hollow. You will marry him. And you will not fail me." Lyra opened her mouth to protest-but then she saw something in his eyes. Something that made her stop. Fear. Her father was afraid. Not of her. Of something else. Something he wouldn't name. His hands were shaking slightly on the edge of his desk. His jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the muscles jumping beneath his skin. She had never seen her father afraid. What are you afraid of? she wanted to ask. What is coming? But she didn't ask. She had learned long ago that questions were not welcome. Her father did not see her as someone worthy of answers. So instead, she nodded. "Yes, Father," she said. "I will go." *** Three days later, Lyra stood at the edge of the Silverfang village and watched her home disappear behind a wall of silver trees. She was leaving. She was leaving the only home she had ever known. She was leaving her mother, who had not come to see her off. She was leaving her sister Elara, who had wept and clung to her and begged her not to go. She was leaving everything she had ever known to marry a monster in a kingdom of shadows. She did not look back. She was afraid that if she did, she would break. *** The journey to Black Hollow took three days. Lyra traveled in a carriage draped in Silverfang colors-silver and white, the colors of the moon. Her escort was small: a handful of warriors, a handmaiden who refused to meet her eyes, and a driver who muttered prayers under his breath whenever they crossed into darker territory. The forest grew darker as they traveled north. The silver-leaved trees of Silverfang gave way to black pines and twisted oaks. The air thickened. The sky dimmed. Lyra felt the change in her bones. She was leaving the land of the moon. She was entering the land of shadows. On the first night, she had the dream again. She was standing in a forest she didn't recognize. The trees were black. The sky was black. Everything was black, except for the mist that coiled around her ankles like smoke. And there, in the heart of the darkness, stood the wolf. He was enormous. Bigger than any wolf she had ever seen. His fur was not fur-it was shadow made solid, rippling with movement like a living cloak. His eyes were burning amber, and they pinned her in place with their intensity. He did not attack. He did not move. He simply watched her. "You're coming," he said. His voice was not a voice. It was a thought pressed into her skull, heavy and warm and impossibly intimate. "They're bringing you to me." Lyra tried to speak. Her throat was too tight. The wolf stepped closer. She should have been afraid. She should have run. But something in her chest-that caged thing, that buried presence-reached out toward him like a hand reaching for the sun. "I've been waiting for you," the wolf said. "I've been waiting so long." She woke gasping. Her handmaiden looked up from the corner of the carriage, startled. "My lady? Are you unwell?" Lyra shook her head. Her heart was pounding. She was drenched in sweat. The dream had felt so real. Too real. "I'm fine," she managed. "Just... a nightmare." But she knew it wasn't a nightmare. Nightmares were frightening. This had been something else entirely. Something that felt like a memory. Something that felt like a promise. *** On the third day, they reached Black Hollow. Lyra watched the kingdom approach through the window of her carriage. She had expected darkness. She had expected shadows and death and everything the stories had promised. She was not disappointed. The capital of Black Hollow was built from black stone, jagged spires, iron gates that creaked like dying things. The architecture was harsh and unforgiving. There were no gardens, no flowers, no softness to be found. The castle at the heart of the city rose from the bedrock like a dark fist punching toward the sky. The people who lined the streets to watch her arrival did not smile. They stared. They whispered. She heard their words through the carriage walls. They did not try to hide them. "She can't shift." "Look at her. She's terrified." "The Alpha will eat her alive." "She won't last a month." Lyra kept her face still. She had learned that too. The mask of composure. The blank expression that revealed nothing. But inside, she was shaking. The carriage pulled through the iron gates of the castle. Lyra stepped down onto black stone. She wore her finest gown-silver silk embroidered with moons. She looked like a lamb being led to slaughter. The court gathered to watch her. They lined the great hall like statues, their faces cold, their eyes sharp. They were wolves, every one of them. Predators who had scented prey. And at the far end of the hall, on a throne of black stone and bone, sat Kael Draven. He was not what she expected. She had expected a monster. A brute. A beast with fangs and claws and the mind of a rabid dog. Instead, she found a man who looked like a blade made flesh. He was beautiful. Not in the soft way of poets and lovers, but in the harsh way of winter and war. His hair was black as obsidian, falling across a face carved from ice. His cheekbones were sharp. His jaw was strong. His eyes were the same burning amber as the dream-wolf's. They pinned her in place the moment she met them. Lyra forgot how to breathe. Kael Draven did not rise from his throne. He did not smile. He did not offer her a single gesture of welcome. He looked at her like she was a piece on a chessboard he hadn't asked for. Lyra curtsied. Her hands trembled. Her voice was gone. The words she had practiced, the careful speech she had prepared, evaporated from her mind. The silence stretched. And then Kael spoke. "Lyra Ashbourne." His voice was deep. Flat. Disinterested. It cut through her like a blade. She nodded. That was all she could manage. He rose from his throne and descended toward her. The court held its breath. Lyra felt the weight of a hundred eyes on her. He stopped inches away. His presence pressed against her like a physical weight-like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the wind pull at your clothes. She smelled him. Pine and smoke and something darker. Something that made the caged thing in her chest howl. He looked down at her. His eyes swept over her from head to toe, assessing, measuring, dismissing. "You are my wife by law," he said. "Nothing more. Stay out of my way. Stay out of my affairs. And we will not have a problem." He turned and walked away. The court exhaled. The tension shattered. Lyra stood alone in the center of the great hall, hundreds of eyes on her, and felt something crack inside her chest. She had expected cruelty. She had prepared for cruelty. She hadn't prepared for this. This cold dismissal. This utter lack of regard. He had looked at her like she was nothing. Like she was less than nothing. She had spent her whole life being invisible. She had never realized it could still hurt. But then-as Kael reached the door-he paused. Just for a second. A heartbeat. A breath. He glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes met hers. And for one moment, something flickered in that cold amber gaze. Recognition. It was gone before she could name it. He turned away. He left. The heavy doors boomed shut behind him, and Lyra was alone with the cold court and the whispering shadows. But that moment lingered. She didn't understand it. She didn't dare hope. But something in her chest stirred. That caged thing. That buried wolf. It woke. *** That night, Lyra lay in a bed too large for a girl who had never been wanted. The sheets were black silk. The canopy was carved from shadow. The room was cold, even with the fire crackling in the hearth. She couldn't sleep. Her mind was a storm of fear and confusion and a strange, aching loneliness. And then she heard the screams. Not distant. Not imagined. Somewhere in the palace, someone was dying. Lyra sat up. Her heart pounded. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block out the sound, but it only grew louder. A man screaming. Then a woman. Then silence. Her hands were shaking. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember how to be small. How to hide. How to survive. But something inside her wouldn't let her hide. A voice rose beneath the screams. The same voice from her dreams. Soft. Warm. Intimate. "Run, little wolf." Lyra opened her eyes. And in the darkness of her chamber, she saw two amber eyes glowing from the corner. Watching. Waiting. She screamed.

The amber eyes did not move. Lyra's scream died in her throat. She pressed herself against the headboard, clutching the black silk sheets, her heart slamming against her ribs. The eyes watched from the corner, large and luminous, belonging to something massive. A hulking shadow that drank the darkness. "Do not scream again." The voice was in her head. Deep. Resonant. Intimate. The shadow stepped into the moonlight. It was a wolf-but too big, too aware. Fur black as void. Muscles like coiled steel. Eyes burning with ancient intelligence. She had seen this wolf before. In her dreams. In the darkness of her mind. "You are safe," the wolf said. "The screams you heard... dealt with." Lyra's throat constricted. "Dealt with?" "Assassins. They came for you. They are dead." Someone had sent killers to murder her on her first night. "Who?" she managed. "Who sent them?" The wolf's eyes flickered. "Your husband is investigating. He is... efficient." "Why are you here?" she whispered. "What do you want?" The wolf stepped closer. Stopped at the edge of her bed. Its warmth radiated against her skin. "I am here because you summoned me. Every time you dreamed of me, you called. Every time you felt that pressure in your chest, you reached out." Lyra shook her head. "I don't understand." "Your wolf. The one you believe you lack. It is not gone. It has been sealed. Bound. Buried so deep you forgot it existed." "Sealed? By who?" "By those who fear what you will become." The wolf tilted its head. Its amber eyes bore into hers. "You carry the Heart of the Devil Wolf. The last fragment of the most powerful wolf to ever exist. The Moon Goddess herself sealed your power to prevent the prophecy from coming true." Lyra's blood ran cold. "I don't have any power. I can't even shift. I'm nobody." "You are the most dangerous wolf in existence. And they have made you believe you are worthless to keep you weak." It leaned closer. Breath ghosted across her face. Pine and smoke and ancient magic. "They are coming for you again. The assassins were only the beginning. The man who sent them will try again. And again. Until you are dead or he controls the power you carry." "Who? Who sent them?" The wolf turned toward the door. Ears pricked. Body tensed. "Someone is coming. Be careful who you trust. The ones who smile at you are often the ones holding the blade." "Wait-I don't even know who you are. What are you?" The wolf turned back. Its amber eyes softened. "I am what you will become. I am the part of you that was stolen. I am your wolf. And I will not abandon you." The door burst open. Lyra spun. Kael Draven stood in the doorway, silhouetted against torchlight. Black tunic stained dark at the collar. Hair disheveled. Jaw tight. A man fresh from battle. His eyes swept the room. "Where is it?" "Where is what?" "The wolf. I felt it. Something was in here with you." Lyra looked to the corner. Empty. The shadow was gone. Only the scent of pine and smoke remained. "There was nothing. I was alone." Kael's eyes narrowed. "I heard you scream. The guards heard you scream. And I felt-" He stopped. Jaw tightened. "Never mind. Are you injured?" She shook her head. "I'm fine. The screams I heard-what happened?" Silence stretched. His eyes met hers. Recognition flickered. Then gone. "Assassins. They were heading for your chambers." "Did you catch them?" "They are dead. All of them." "Did you question them? Find out who sent them?" He stared at her. Something shifted in his posture. Tension. Tightening around his eyes. "They were hired. Anonymous contract. The trail ends with the dead." Lyra's pulse quickened. The wolf had warned her. The ones who smile at you are often the ones holding the blade. "The servants-" "Are being questioned. Every person in the palace will be interrogated. You will not be harmed again." Something in his voice shifted. Protectiveness. Involuntary. As if the words escaped before he could stop them. "Why did you come?" she asked softly. "You said I was nothing to you. A wife by law and nothing more." His expression hardened. "Because I do not allow my possessions to be stolen or destroyed. If someone wants you dead, they answer to me." His possessions. The words hit like a slap. He hadn't come to protect her. He had come to protect his property. She looked away. "I see." Kael stood there longer. She felt his eyes on her, weighing. Measuring. Then he turned. "I'm posting guards outside your chambers. You will not leave without an escort. Do you understand?" She nodded without looking at him. "And Lyra." His voice softened. "The wolf you saw... if you remember anything, tell me." She looked up. "How do you know I saw a wolf?" He paused at the threshold. Glanced back. His amber eyes met hers. "Because," he said quietly, "I saw it too." The door closed. Lyra was alone. The wolf's words echoed. The ones who smile at you are often the ones holding the blade. Kael Draven didn't smile. He was cold, distant, dismissive. But he had come when she screamed. He had killed the assassins himself. He had felt the wolf's presence. What did that mean? And more importantly-who had sent the killers? She pressed her hand to her chest. Beneath her palm, she felt it again. The pressure. The caged thing. The wolf sealed by the Moon Goddess herself. I am what you will become. I will not abandon you. Lyra stared into the darkness. Her life had changed forever. The question was whether she would survive it. ***** Morning arrived with a summons. Lyra had not slept. Every shadow alive. Every creak a threat. She had spent the night sitting upright against the headboard, eyes fixed on the corner where the black wolf had appeared. A servant entered, trembling. "His Majesty requests your presence in the throne room. He wishes to introduce you to the court." Lyra looked at the food on the tray. She wasn't hungry. "Tell my husband I will be there shortly." The servant fled. Lyra dressed in black silk and silver embroidery-the colors of Black Hollow. She looked at her reflection. The gown was beautiful. The girl wearing it looked like a ghost. But beneath that ghost, something stirred. Something ancient. Powerful. Waking. *** The throne room was more intimidating in daylight. Courtiers lined the walls, eyes sharp, expressions cold. Wolves who smelled weakness. She would not give them any. Kael sat on his throne of black stone and bone. Formal black armor. Hair pulled back. He looked like a god of death. But when his eyes met hers, recognition flickered. And something else. Worry. She curtsied. Whispers swelled. "She can't shift." "Why would the Alpha choose a Moon-Cursed?" "She won't last." Kael rose,walked towards her. Stopped inches away. His warmth pressed against her. "The court welcomes its new Luna," he announced. "My wife, Lyra Draven." The name hit like a blow. Lyra Draven. Bound to him. Married to a man who said she was nothing. But why did his eyes say something different? The court applauded. Hollow sound against stone. Lyra forced a smile. Forced herself to stand tall. Then she felt it. A presence. Cold. Calculating. Watching. She turned. A man stood in the shadows near the throne. Grey-haired. A face that might have been kind once. He smiled at her-a warm, fatherly smile. The wolf inside her stirred. It growled. Be careful, the wolf's voice whispered in her mind. The ones who smile at you are often the ones holding the blade. Lyra looked at the smiling man. A chill ran down her spine. She didn't know his name. But the wolf knew. And the wolf was afraid. **** That night, Lyra stood at her window and stared into the darkness. Guards posted outside. Windows locked. The room was as secure as Kael could make it. But the black wolf hadn't returned. She had felt it, though. Stirring in her chest. Pressing against the seal. Growing stronger. And she had felt something else. A presence in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Below in the courtyard, a figure stood. Grey hair. Warm smile. Looking up at her window. He raised his hand. He waved. Lyra stepped back. Heart pounding. The wolf in her chest screamed a warning. She didn't know his name. But she knew, with absolute certainty, he was the one who had sent the assassins. And he was coming for her.